


in sickness and in health

by some_stars



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Gift Giving, M/M, Sickfic, set in some vague time between 103 and 105, this is extremely self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:53:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23465707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/some_stars/pseuds/some_stars
Summary: Geralt's eyes fixed on him. They were glittering and dark, pupils dilated despite the bright sunlight; they seemed to stand out from his face, which was even paler than usual, bar the hectic red flush high on his cheekbones.If it had been any other person, Jaskier would have known what to assume, but... "Are yousick?"
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 117
Kudos: 1457





	in sickness and in health

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to take a break while struggling to edit my big meaningful serious WIP. This is none of those things, it's just a classic sickfic, because that makes me feel better. This is also the most cliched possible title for a sickfic ever, because that also makes me feel better.

Looking back, Jaskier could identify moments over the last couple days that he might have noticed--when Geralt moved more slowly, or grimaced a more pained grimace, or ate less--but he didn't actually realize what was happening until the morning Geralt didn't wake up before him. They were camped about an hour outside the next town, and that was a sign, too--that Geralt hadn't pushed on. They hadn't even stopped that late, only just past dusk, and Jaskier had just thought Geralt was going easy on him, as he occasionally did, or maybe he didn't feel like sleeping inside four walls tonight, as he occasionally didn't.

Geralt had been quiet as he'd lit the fire, and it had taken him a minute. That should have set off an alarm too, but Jaskier hadn't really been paying attention--had been sitting on his bedroll, taking off his shoes with an extravagant sigh of pleasure as he wiggled his tired feet. Usually Geralt sat up with him a bit, eating whatever they'd brought or whatever he'd caught in the woods, and just staring into the fire as Jaskier talked, or played, or sung. But he'd just lain down and closed his eyes, and seemed to fall immediately asleep. That, Jaskier thought now, that was when he should have noticed something was wrong. But he hadn't; he'd simply gnawed on a bit of dried sausage from his pack and gone to sleep.

He woke up squinting into the full force of the risen sun, and that was the moment his stomach started to flip with the beginnings of worry. Geralt _never_ let him sleep this late; he was fairly sure the man rose with the dawn, whether inside or out. He didn't hear anyone moving about the camp, either, and for a terrible moment he thought maybe Geralt had just--left him behind.

But there he was, curled up on his bedroll facing the low murmuring coals of a fire that hadn't been properly put out, and his eyes were still closed. It wasn't a good sleep, or at least not an easy one; Geralt twitched and grimaced, and his hair, Jaskier realized as he moved closer, was damp with sweat.

"Geralt?" he said tentatively. There was no response.

Jaskier deliberated. Geralt had warned him, once--just once--not to disturb him in his sleep. "I could hurt you," he'd said, looking away as if, perhaps, ashamed. "If I'm startled."

But he didn't wake up when Jaskier repeated his name more loudly, so there wasn't anything else to do. Jaskier knelt at his back and cautiously put one hand on his shoulder. "Geralt, wake up."

Geralt jerked and his eyes flew open, but it took a worryingly long few seconds for them to focus. "Jaskier?" he said, his voice thick and sleepy.

"None other." Jaskier smiled, though he was getting more concerned by the second. "Looks like you overslept a bit. Are you all right?"

Geralt's eyes fixed on him. They were glittering and dark, pupils dilated despite the bright sunlight; they seemed to stand out from his face, which was even paler than usual, bar the hectic red flush high on his cheekbones.

If it had been any other person, Jaskier would have known what to assume, but... "Are you _sick?_ " he asked, disbelieving.

Geralt grunted as he tried to sit up, but his arms kept giving out. Alarmed, Jaskier slipped his arms underneath Geralt's and hauled him upright.

"Can't be," Geralt said shortly, and coughed. Jaskier raised his eyebrows. "I don't get sick," Geralt insisted, but his brows were furrowed.

"I suppose there's a first time for everything?"

"Not this," he said. "Witchers--" More coughing. "Witchers don't. Never have."

Jaskier pressed the back of his palm to Geralt's forehead and jerked it away almost immediately. "Gods, you're burning up. Whatever's going on, it's not good."

"Could be a curse," Geralt mumbled. He was starting to list to the side again; Jaskier pulled him upright with an arm around his shoulder, and left it there. "One of those magical objects, from the last job."

"Probably," Jaskier agreed, "but the primary effect of this curse seems to be making you sick, so maybe we should just proceed on those grounds for the time being. Which means you need to rest, somewhere besides a forest floor."

It took long enough to get Geralt into his boots and to his feet that Jaskier started to feel truly frightened. He did his best not to show it, though, because he could sense an answering chord of fear within Geralt, though the other man hardly showed it. It was just a tightness in his voice, a furrow around his mouth--and Jaskier's growing certainty that Geralt had never been through anything like this before, not in all his long, long life.

To feel sick was bad enough. To feel sick for the first time after a century of health--it must be terrifying, he thought. Getting Geralt into the saddle didn't seem worth the risk of him falling off, and maybe it was the surest sign something was really wrong with him that he didn't protest when Jaskier took Roach's lead and walked alongside her, one arm still around Geralt, helping him stand.

The hour's walk seemed infinitely longer. By the time they reached the doorstep of the first inn they came to, Geralt was sagging noticeably, and coughing much more often. "Wait here," Jaskier said, helping him sit on the steps outside. He went inside, bargained for a room with two beds and a place in the stable, then tied Roach to the front post and quickly hustled Geralt upstairs before the innkeeper could get too good a look at him. Whatever Geralt had, it almost certainly wasn't contagious, but it wasn't as if the average person would understand that.

Almost as soon as he helped Geralt onto one of the beds, he was asleep again, still breathing fitfully. Jaskier stood and stared at him for a minute, a chill piercing him. If this was a curse, it was clearly the kind that got worse. They were going to need help--help he had no idea where to find. 

In the meantime, he went downstairs and saw to Roach properly, then asked at the bar about lunch. "And some broth, if you have it," he added, because Geralt would have to keep his strength up somehow. The innkeeper produced both in short order, and he carried the food and soup upstairs and set it down before sitting down hard, suddenly exhausted, on the other bed. It was physical, partly--he'd never had to support Geralt's weight for so long, and the man was _enormous_ \--but also, without anything to occupy himself, he felt almost crushed beneath his worry.

"We'll figure this out," he said softly, though he needn't have bothered; nothing short of a bellow was going to wake Geralt now.

\--

Geralt woke almost two hours later. His eyes, black rimmed with gold, darted around the room before fixing on Jaskier. "How long?" he said hoarsely.

"Only a couple of hours," Jaskier said. "How do you feel? You don't look any worse, at least." 

"Bad," Geralt said shortly.

"Fair enough. Here, drink some water," and he held out a cup. It took Geralt a moment to get a good grip on it, and then he swallowed it all in one go before sinking back down. 

"Is this--" Geralt started, then interrupted himself with a cough. "Is this what it's like? Being sick?"

"More or less," Jaskier said. "You've got a particularly bad case of--whatever you've got."

"A curse," Geralt insisted. 

"A particularly bad curse, then." He sighed. "So you think it was one of those magical objects?"

"What else?"

"But we burned the whole trunk of them," Jaskier pointed out. "And that was almost a week ago now; why would it take so long to hit?" Geralt didn't say anything, and Jaskier narrowed his eyes. "Wait, how long have you been feeling sick?" Still no answer. " _Geralt._ "

"Five days," Geralt muttered finally. "Not this bad though. Just...tired. Headache. Hard to think."

"Five _days,_ " Jaskier repeated with rising frustration. "Why didn't you say something? We could have stopped in the last town, maybe it wouldn't have gotten this bad."

The look on Geralt's face was nothing approaching apologetic, but he did look at least a little shamefaced. "Didn't know," he said. "This...never happened before."

At the thought of Geralt struggling through his symptoms without the slightest understanding of what was causing them, Jaskier's anger vanished. Gods, but he must have been afraid. He hadn't shown it, of course, but Jaskier had always known Geralt felt things more deeply than he let on. He should have noticed sooner, really. It was practically his job.

"Well, at least this town is big enough I should be able to find a healer," he said. "Or a mage, I suppose. Or both." He should have been out looking for them already, really, but he hadn't wanted to leave Geralt without making sure he was going to wake up. Now that he was awake and talking, and just seemed to have a nasty flu, Jaskier's wild fears from earlier seemed a little silly, but--he'd just gotten worse so _fast_. He still didn't feel entirely safe leaving Geralt alone, because this _wasn't_ just an illness, whatever it seemed like. But he had to admit that his presence wasn't much help.

Jaskier stood up and started for the door.

"Where are you going?" There was a sharp note of alarm in Geralt's voice that Jaskier rarely heard outside a fight. He turned back to look at him and smiled reassuringly.

"To fetch a healer or a mage, of course. Unless you want to wait and see how this situation develops on its own?"

"Hm," Geralt grunted, but he relaxed a little. Jaskier felt a small pang in his chest. Geralt wasn't used to being weak, or--well, not defenseless; he didn't seem that far gone. But if it was bad enough that he wanted Jaskier to stay with him, he must feel absolutely terrible.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," Jaskier told him, but his eyes were already closing again.

The innkeeper was nowhere to be seen when he went downstairs, but there was a young woman behind the bar, cleaning glasses. She'd been there when they came in, he realized; a mostly mousy-looking little thing, but with golden hair that made her plain face shine.

"Hello," he greeted her with a smile. "Would you happen to know where I could find a healer in this town? Or, if you have one, a mage?"

She glanced up at him with a sharp eye. "This about your friend? He's sick?"

"I promise, it's not catching," he said. Granted, he would have said it regardless, but he was pretty sure it was true; if whatever Geralt had was contagious, surely Jaskier would be sick by now. "To be honest, the mage would be more useful."

Her suspicion seemed to lessen a bit. "Well, there's Janna the wise woman," she said. "She does most of the healing in these parts, and she knows a bit of magic."

He would have preferred a sorcerer, but he gave the barmaid another warm smile. "She sounds like just the person I need."

\--

From his first step into Janna's hut, Jaskier could tell she knew more than a bit of magic. He wasn't particularly sensitive to the stuff himself, but there was a smell in the air like a lightning storm, and her eyes seemed to shift in color as he looked at her.

"So what do you need?" she asked. "A money charm? Or is it a case of the lover's pox?"

"Nothing quite so pedestrian, I'm afraid," he said. "My friend has taken ill, and I have reason to believe it's a magical ailment."

"Oh?"

He debated whether to tell her for a second, but decided it was probably relevant enough, what with magic being involved and all. "He's a witcher," he said, watching her reaction. "They don't get sick like a normal human."

She didn't frown, or spit, or make the evil eye at him, and he was relieved. Not that people did that quite so much these days, with Jaskier's songs making their way around the continent, but there were always holdouts, towns where they found themselves less than welcome. But Janna only made a considering noise, and said, "So he's been cursed, then?"

"That's the theory. I was hoping you could take a look at him."

"Right," she said, and starting plucking vials off the shelves that lined the little room and putting them in a large black bag.

When they got back to the inn, Geralt was still sleeping, but he stirred as Janna bent over him, peering closely at his face. His eyes opened and he abruptly tensed up.

"It's okay," Jaskier said quickly. "This is Janna, she's going to help you."

After a breath, Geralt subsided slightly, but he kept his eyes glued to Janna as she examined his eyes, and the pulse in his wrist, and moved her hands back and forth a few inches above him.

"It's definitely a curse," she said finally. "A strong one, too. This far along, if you were a mortal man you'd be dead by now."

"How do we break it?" Jaskier asked, because he did not care for that piece of information one bit.

"Have to destroy the source," Janna said. "This sort of spell, it's usually a trap placed in an object. Destroy the object and the curse is broken."

He glanced at Geralt, heart sinking, and saw his feelings mirrored there. "We already burned them all," he said. "There was a whole box of magic objects, but we burned them. Days ago."

"Then you must not have burned the right one," she said, in a voice that indicated she didn't care all that much if they had or hadn't. But she did sound certain. "I can give you some herbs that'll lift the worst of it for a day or two, but witcher or no, it'll keep getting worse."

He took the herbs, and paid her what she asked, and sat down in the chair by Geralt's bed as she left. "So that wasn't the _worst_ news," he said eventually.

Geralt snorted. "What part of it...was good?"

"The curse can be broken," Jaskier said. "I mean, that's something."

"But we already...destroyed the source. Whatever it was."

"Yeah," Jaskier said with a sigh, "there is that."

\--

The herbs helped for a day. Geralt didn't get much better, but he didn't get any worse either. He slept, mostly, and when he wasn't sleeping he meditated, and he was able to keep down a bowl of broth. By the third day, though, he was deteriorating, and a fresh dose of herbs had no effect.

The fever wasn't worse than it had been, but it was high, and steady, and taking its toll. Jaskier sat by Geralt with a bowl of water and a cloth and dabbed it across his forehead and neck and wrists, because it seemed to soothe him a little. He didn't really know how to take care of a sick person, frankly. He'd rarely been ill growing up, and on the few occasions he'd been truly laid out by something, he'd mostly been left alone barring regular deliveries of soup and water and, the one time it had been very bad, medicine. Neither of his parents had been the brow-caressing sort. 

Mostly what he'd wanted had been someone to sit with him, so that he didn't keep waking up to an empty room. So he sat with Geralt, and switched out his pillows when they grew wrinkled and damp with sweat, and tried to figure out how to fix this before it was too late.

They were six days travel away from the source of the problem at this point--if they were even right about where the curse had come from. More importantly, Jaskier couldn't think of what he would do when he got there. When they'd found the chest full of trinkets and curios that, according to Geralt, stank of dark magic, they'd burned each and every item. They'd killed the wizard who had made the things, and as they were leaving town the locals had laid torches to the house itself. Whatever Geralt had touched that had caused this, it was certainly ashes now.

It didn't matter anyway, though, because Jaskier wasn't sure Geralt was going to last six days--much less twelve, if Jaskier couldn't find a solution there. And anyway, the thought of leaving him alone was unbearable. 

On the fourth day, he tore apart both their bags searching for something, anything, that they might have accidentally brought with them. Geralt was rarely conscious by this point, stirring only a few times a day for Jaskier to carefully pour a little water between his cracked lips. His eyes, when he opened them, were still dilated whether it was day or night, and they had taken on a frighteningly lost look, as though Geralt couldn't even remember what was happening to him, only that something was terribly wrong.

He searched and searched, dumped the bags out on the floor and pawed through the contents, but there was nothing that hadn't been there two weeks ago. He sat on the floor in the middle of the mess and put his face in his hands, trying not to cry.

There had to be something. Geralt couldn't _die._ To be sure, Jaskier had steeled himself countless times against losing Geralt, had more or less come to terms with the fact that any contract could be his last--but this was different. This was...it was _unfair._

"Jaskier," Geralt said, the rough labored sound of his voice piercing Jaskier's thoughts. "Jaskier?" He sounded almost panicky. Quickly, Jaskier returned to his side and leaned over him so Geralt could see him without turning his head.

"I'm here," he said, in as soothing a voice as he could manage.

"Stay," Geralt said urgently, and he nodded. 

"I will. I promise."

For a minute, Geralt didn't say anything further, but he didn't fall back asleep either. He just gazed up at Jaskier with those dark eyes, bottomless fathoms deep.

"Feels like...dying," he said eventually. 

Jaskier shook his head harshly. "No. Absolutely not."

To his amazement, Geralt smiled. "If you say so."

"I do," Jaskier said, and felt his eyes getting hot. "I do say so, you're not allowed to die, so you had better listen to me."

The look Geralt gave him...his face was ghost-white and glistening with sweat, and he looked, for all Jaskier's protestations, on the knife edge of death, but the fondness was unmistakable. Jaskier grabbed his hand and felt an answering squeeze, just an echo of his former strength.

"Will you..." Geralt paused to cough, which turned into more coughing; Jaskier watched helplessly as he struggled through the fit. Finally it subsided. "Will you sing?"

"I--will that help?"

"I like it," Geralt said simply, and closed his eyes. The tears did come then, but he managed to keep his voice mostly steady as he launched into the opening of the first thing that came to mind--not one of his own songs, but one that he'd learned a long time ago.

" _A pretty fair maid was in her garden,_ " he sang, " _when a stranger came a-riding by..._ "

A smile ghosted across Geralt's face as he sang, and he kept at it even after Geralt had obviously fallen asleep again. He didn't know what else to do.

It was well over an hour later when his voice cracked mid-verse and he finally stopped. He was thirsty, he realized, and hungry--almost starving. Geralt hadn't been able to keep anything down since yesterday, and Jaskier had forgotten to get food for himself. 

He couldn't bring himself to leave the room--to leave Geralt alone--but he knew Geralt usually kept some emergency rations in his bag somewhere. There wasn't anything resembling food in the mess on the floor, so--moving mechanically, as if watching himself from outside--he picked up Geralt's bag and started to root around inside. It was quite empty, and he was about to give up when his fingers stumbled over a lump in the fabric of the lining. He frowned and pulled the bag open, peering into it.

It was a hidden pocket, he realized, sewn into the lining so as to be almost undetectable. Now that he knew it was there, he quickly found the opening and reached inside.

There was something hard in there, something made up of little pieces. He pulled it out and stared at it for a second without recognition--a bracelet, made of painted wooden beads, a little rough-hewn but vibrantly colorful.

Then he remembered. It had been in the house--not in the wizard's study, but in a bowl in the kitchen, and he'd stopped as they'd passed through and pointed it out--admired it. Mentioned wanting one like it.

"Oh fuck, Geralt, you _idiot,_ " he breathed, and dropped it like it was on fire, then grabbed a towel to pick it up again--just in case--before running downstairs, taking the stairs two at a time and almost tripping.

The fire in their room wasn't lit, because it wasn't cold, but the hearth in the main room of the inn was blazing. Jaskier stumbled to a halt directly in front of it and threw in the bracelet, towel and all.

 _Please,_ he thought, and watched it burn, ignoring the sharp questions from the innkeeper behind him. _Please, please, please..._

When the wood was so blackened that he couldn't see the color of the paint anymore, his patience gave out and he ran back upstairs. Panting, he burst into their room, heart in his throat, face still wet with tears.

Geralt pushed himself up to sitting and stared back at him. "How..."

"The bracelet," Jaskier said, breathlessly. "It was the bracelet, you stupid, stupid-- _fuck._ " His heart was racing as if he'd run a mile, not just a single flight of stairs. "What were you even doing with it? Why didn't you _say?_ "

Realization dawned on Geralt's face--no longer splotched with angry red, and not quite as pallid as before. He looked away, seeming almost embarrassed. "I forgot," he said. "I--you liked it. I thought..."

Jaskier collapsed on the bed next to him, feeling utterly overwhelmed and frankly confused. "I like a lot of things, Geralt!" he said sharply. It felt like all the fear of the past few days was resounding in him all at once, now that it wasn't needed anymore. 

"Not things I can give you," Geralt said. He still wouldn't look at Jaskier. "I wanted...you _liked_ it." He sounded helpless.

Jaskier took a deep breath, and then another. "I..." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Are you really okay? Just like that?"

"I feel like shit," Geralt said. "But I don't feel sick."

"I thought you were going to _die,_ " Jaskier said plaintively. On an impulse he didn't dare look at too closely, he laid a hand over Geralt's. Geralt took it, weaving their fingers together, and his heart did a funny jump in his chest. "I thought....gods, you really just wanted to give me a present?"

Geralt shrugged. "It was stupid."

"It was sweet," Jaskier said. He felt almost crushed under the weight of _feeling_ that was washing over him, the relief and leftover panic and the strange deep thrum that had filled him when he had recognized the bracelet, and was only getting stronger.

Feeling quite daring and a little foolish, he reached out with his free hand and turned Geralt's face toward him. He half expected Geralt to bat his hand away, but he didn't do anything like that, just met his eyes. They were back to their usual warm gold, pupils no bigger than they should be. 

"When I thought I was going to lose you," Jaskier said, not entirely certain where he was going with it, "I didn't...I didn't have a lot of time to think. And I wasn't thinking very clearly. I just felt scared."

Geralt didn't say anything, but listened with an intent gaze.

"So now," Jaskier continued, "I'm having...well, a lot of feelings. About losing you. And not losing you. And you wanting to give me things."

"Jaskier," Geralt said softly. "You don't have to..."

"Shhh," he said, and Geralt fell silent. "I know I don't have to. I _want_ to."

"Want to what?"

It was a good question, Jaskier thought, and just as suddenly he knew the answer. "This," he said, and leaned in and brushed his lips against Geralt's, light as anything.

When he sat back Geralt was watching him with wide eyes, mouth a little open.

"Thank you for the bracelet," Jaskier said, heart pounding like a drum. Geralt's eyes did darken then, and before Jaskier could take another breath Geralt's hand was on the back of his neck and he was being kissed for real.

It was _good,_ kissing Geralt; it was everything he'd wanted and not allowed himself to want for so many years. He made a helpless little noise against Geralt's mouth and flushed at the sound of it. But Geralt only held him tighter, and they kissed for a while like that, for endless slow minutes.

Eventually Geralt said, muffled into Jaskier's throat, "I always want to give you things."

Jaskier's heart seized. He cupped Geralt's head, holding him there. "I always want you to not die," he said. "So I guess we're a matched set."

\--

In the next city they stopped in, there was a fair and an accompanying market, stall after stall of food and goods and little treasures of all sorts. It was the sort of thing Jaskier loved, and Geralt usually hated, but he followed uncomplainingly as Jaskier wove their way through the crowd to a jeweler's stall.

"Look," he said, picking up a little wooden ring with the hand that wasn't holding Geralt's. "You can still see the grain, and it's so smooth. And the carving!"

"Ah, you've a good eye," the jeweler said. "Most folks go straight for the gold and silver."

"More fools they," Jaskier said, tracing the finely carved flowers with his thumb. "This is magnificent."

"Hm," Geralt said. "How much?"

He paid, and for a moment Jaskier thought Geralt might slide it onto his finger himself, and realized rather breathlessly that he would like that. But Geralt just held it out to him, the ring tiny in the center of his open palm.

"Here," he said gruffly, and Jaskier smiled.

"Thank you," he said, and put it on. It fit perfectly. "I love it."

Later that night he lay curled in Geralt's arms, thoroughly satisfied, twirling the ring back and forth around his finger.

"I really do love it," he said. Geralt made a low rumbling sound of contentment that Jaskier felt in his own chest. "Just remember to keep up your end of the bargain, too."

"No dying," Geralt said. It was a foolish promise, and impossible to keep, and Jaskier knew that full well, but he still felt something unlock inside him at the words.

"No dying," he repeated. "Glad we're in agreement."

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://some-stars.tumblr.com/) for Witcher shitposts, WIP updates, occasional prompt fills, and just because I very much need people to talk to about this stupid, stupid show. :D? :D? Also if you would like to reblog this story, you can [do so here!](https://some-stars.tumblr.com/post/614404943694233600/in-sickness-and-in-health-somestars-the)


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